


so lonely in your company

by dansunedisco



Category: Sanditon (TV 2019), Sanditon - Jane Austen
Genre: Angst, Drama & Romance, F/M, HEA Compliant, Historical, Jaw Clenching & Sullen Stares, Jealous Sidney, Jealousy, Love Triangles, Major Original Character(s), Post-Canon, Regency, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:34:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26888206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dansunedisco/pseuds/dansunedisco
Summary: A year after Sidney was obliged to engage himself to Mrs. Campion, he returns to Society unmarried and unbetrothed — and fully intent on securing the hand of one Miss Heywood...Only to find her attention firmly held by the mysterious Lord Gabriel Dryden.
Relationships: Charlotte Heywood/Sidney Parker
Comments: 286
Kudos: 414





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> here we go, folks.
> 
> a twitter thread asking for jealous!Sidney spawned this baby. check out #JealousSidney on twitter for some background if you have some time to kill.
> 
> the title of this story is given to us by gotye's ['somebody that i used to know'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CgvwIQfNCPo&list=RDCgvwIQfNCPo&index=2) (but the 80s synth version only, tyvm).
> 
>  **this story is 100% Sidlotte endgame** , but Sidney will be facing an intense rival and will spend much of this story trying to earn Charlotte back. i understand that this might not be everyone's bag!

After Lord Babington’s wedding, Sidney returns to London to continue planning his own.

He expects an elaborate spring wedding, but ‘elaborate’ soon becomes less so, and the date is quickly set. 

Sidney foolishly believes it’s entirely all to do with eagerness for matrimonial bliss on Eliza’s part. She tells him she is eager to rejoin Society as Mrs. Parker, and the matter is settled. Even if he cared for flower arrangements and guest lists, his opinion is never sought. He becomes a piece on the chessboard of his own life and moves only at the whims of others.

That is, until Crowe calls upon him at Bedford Place one fateful morning.

For once, his friend is sober and serious. That is enough to garner Sidney’s full attention and complete worry.

“You cannot marry Eliza Campion,” Crowe says, and proceeds to recount the rumor that rapidly turns Sidney’s life upside down once more.

Fury guides him through Town, and he arrives at the Campion residence on foot, livid beyond all measure. Though a footman tells him the mistress of the house is unavailable, his thunderous expression is enough to earn him immediate entrance.

He is made to wait. A tray of tea is brought out and biscuits are offered. He does not touch a single thing.

Eliza sweeps into the drawing room a time later, head held high, but her red-rimmed eyes and sallow complexion confirms what Crowe told him nigh two hours previous. 

He sinks into his chair and tosses his hat to the floor, hardly caring that he is breaking all rules of polite etiquette. He no longer owes Eliza any consideration, after all, and he is not feeling particularly kind. There is a hole where his heart once beat, and the blonde-haired beauty trembling in front of him has schemed now twice over to rip it clear from his chest.

“You’ve heard, then,” Eliza says. Her voice is hollow and so unlike the saccharine, lilting tones she fed him at Mrs. Mausdley’s ball and then again at Sanditon’s Regatta. A tear slips down her porcelain cheek. “You must understand--”

“There is nothing to understand,” he cuts her off. He sounds morbidly tired even to his own ears. “You purposefully sought a proposal of marriage from me knowing you were… increasing.”

She sucks in a breath, and he sniffs a mirthless laugh. For a woman who tried to cuckold him after the worst tragedy his family has ever faced, he finds it oddly strange that she applies scandalization to his choice of words.

She wrings her hands together, over and over. “I didn’t know-- I wouldn’t have--”

“You knew, and you did,” he replies. A feeling of eerie calm settles over him. He sees clearly now, her dogged pursuit. “I cannot marry you. I _will_ not marry you. You understand what you’ve done to us both?”

A rich widow has more freedom than perhaps any other in the _ton_ , but Eliza Campion chose to gamble her lot with the wrong man: a titled lord who cared not for a bastard he’d gotten on his mistress, and revealed her gambit to the world before she could press for more. More money; more status; more, more, more. 

As with fire, the rumor spread and grew until it could no longer be contained. 

And now, they both stand in the ashes of its aftermath.

“I’m ruined,” she whispers. A fresh wave of tears joins the first, though she remains otherwise composed. Straight-backed and unbroken, even in the face of her disgrace. 

Her resolve is admirable, but it is not enough to draw Sidney’s sympathy. In fact, it stirs the anger inside of him once more, and he stands. He paces the plush carpet, mind whirling. He is the fox in the trap, and he needs to think clearly lest he chews off his own leg to escape.

“Sidney, please!” she cries, as if he cannot bear seeing him so distraught. She comes to him and tugs his hands into hers. She is not wearing gloves, and seeing her bare skin against his begloved fingers makes him recoil. “I _love_ you, Sidney. Ten years I waited; ten years! As soon as I heard you were back in London, I--”

“Stop,” he says. He swallows. His throat is tight and dry, and an idea sinks its claws into him. If she cannot have him, she can have a title -- and he knows exactly where to find one, and how to save Sanditon in one fell swoop. “You say you love me, Eliza…”

“Yes,” she breathes. Her hands tighten around his. Her expression turns hopeful.

“Then you will not make me marry you while you carry another man’s child,” he says. She tries to throw her hands down, but he does not let her. He holds her gaze, ice meeting ice. “If you love me, you will release me from this engagement immediately, just as you did all those years ago. If you love me, you will retain your investment in Sanditon.”

Her chin dimples. Her lips whiten. Her skin turns ashen.

“If you do this,” he says, “I can promise you I will do everything in my power to repair your reputation.”

“Ha!” She laughs in his face. An angry flush turns her cheeks blotchy and red. “What concern you have, coming to me as you do! Do you think me a fool? Fold my pounds into Sanditon while you run off with that ridiculous girl, leaving me to retire to the country in ill-repute -- what a farce!”

How cruel she is, he thinks. She faces her own peril and eschews others so readily. He lets her go, and here she begins to pace. Her careful comportment disappears and he watches her spiral, though there is no comfort to be found in any of her pain. He remembers the promise he made on the hill and knows he would have done all he could to keep it. Even in the face of his own misery, he would have made Eliza happy -- but he was not hers to have, and now never would be. She sought to that.

“Tell me, then,” Eliza says, finally. She stops pacing, yet keeps her back to him. Her neck is high and stiff and resolute. “Tell me how you will manage my blunder.”

He takes a deep breath, and makes a gamble of his own: “Do you remember Sir Edward Denham?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> goodbye, eliza. it was nice knowing you! :')


	2. Lord Dryden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sidney's year passes in a blur; Charlotte meets Lord Dryden.

Eliza says yes, and Sidney sets the wheel of fate in motion.

Babington petitions and procures the special license. Crowe combs the city of a million people and recovers Sir Edward. From there, it takes little convincing to put the quill in hand and he signs the ironclad contract drawn up by the solicitor to protect Sanditon’s investment in perpetuity.

A sennight later, Sidney sits in the rear pews of a humble church as Eliza Campion walks down the aisle and marries yet another man.

Once their vows are spoken, he departs, a free man at last.

His first thought is to call a carriage and depart immediately for Willingden, but his excited dream of reunion soon withers away. Time is the only salve against the burn of Eliza’s betrayal, and he cannot ride out to the country with fresh taint on his heels. If he is to take anyone to wife, he must wait until Society has forgotten his association with Eliza, and pray that Charlotte, in the interim, does not forget him; and can, someday, forgive him.

Time passes thus: he dives into business and venture, and spreads himself thinner than he thought possible, ensuring Tom does not fritter away his second chance while cultivating his own. He tries -- and fails -- to repair his relationship with Georgiana. He finds Otis Molyneux. He returns to Antigua. Days turn to weeks and to months.

As with fire, so is the sea, and when he next steps on the familiar shores of Bristol, it is nearly a year passed, and he finds home as changed as he.

The Regent is now King.

Babington has a son and heir. 

Crowe is engaged to wed Clara Brereton in the coming months.

But the one change he prayed for to not come to pass indeed did not, and it is with a shaky sigh and a relieved heart that he receives a letter in reply to his inquiry, for Miss Heywood is still Miss Heywood.

-

A world away and unbeknownst to the other party, Charlotte also receives a letter. 

Her presence is formally requested in London to accompany Lady Susan for the Season. As Charlotte reads the fine script, a little voice inside of her tells her that accepting the invitation will surely prove to be the beginning of her next great adventure. Time has lessened the sting of the last, and it is with restrained excitement that she brings the matter forth to her father.

With much reluctance -- and a gentle reminder that their eldest daughter faces the soon-to-be unmarriageable age of three-and-twenty -- her parents give leave for such an occasion; and in a fortnight’s time, a finely-lacquered carriage rolls into Willingden proper to whisk Charlotte away.

Worcester House is more magnificent than even Sanditon House, and Charlotte’s old fears of inadequacy return twofold, but Lady Susan’s reception is as warm as ever, and Charlotte adjusts to London life with alacrity.

A week passes in a blur of events, one tumbling after another, and Charlotte barely has a moment to breathe before she is called down from her room for a formal afternoon tea -- and quite literally stumbles into what she surmises is a brick wall. Sturdy hands on her elbows keep her upright, and when she steps back, she needs to crane her neck to look up, and up, because it is not a brick wall but a gentleman she’s unwittingly bumped into. 

A very tall, very handsome gentleman. A mane of thick, dark hair sweeps away from his forehead, and a lock or two curls over the tips of his ears -- longer than the style of the day, but fetching nevertheless, and Charlotte realizes with a rising blush that she has been standing, staring, and stunned, for a beat too long.

She swallows around the lump in her throat and says, “I beg your pardon, sir.”

“The fault is all mine,” he replies. The timbre of his voice is low, and there is a bright, amused light in his ice-blue eyes as he looks down upon her. “I do not wish to presume, but my aunt has told me she is hosting a young lady for the Season. Are you Miss Heywood?”

She nods, then realizes a curtsey would have been the appropriate gesture, but there is no time to repair her misstep as Lady Susan breezes around the corner, as if she was waiting in the wings for such a moment to transpire. 

Lady Susan’s expression brightens with a smile as she approaches them, and it is one Charlotte recognizes and has recently cataloged as ‘mischievous’.

“Why, there you both are!” she says. “Miss Heywood, may I introduce you to my _nephew_ , Lord Dryden?”

“How do you do, sir,” she responds automatically, dropping easily into the curtsey she earlier forgot. 

“Well-met, Miss Heywood,” Lord Dryden says. Amusement sparkles in his eyes. “May I escort you and my aunt back to the tea room?”

“It would be our pleasure,” Lady Susan replies, and Charlotte has no other option but to accept the arm Lord Dryden offers her with a demure smile.

Thankfully, Lady Susan guides the conversation as they walk the halls of Worcester House, and Charlotte uses the moment of reprieve to collect and regulate herself -- but as soon as she sees the seating arrangement that awaits them in the tea room, she realizes she’s been well fooled by her friend and confidante. She is to sit with Lord Dryden, off to the side of the other even couples.

Lord Dryden escorts his aunt to her chair first, then leads Charlotte to hers, and as soon as she’s sat, he takes his seat. It is directly across from Charlotte’s, and she averts her eyes as he shifts his legs around. He looks strong, well-built, and--

  
_You’ve seen plenty of handsome gentlemen_ , she admonishes herself; though the thought is a lie. Willingden fell quite short in stock of well-bred and well-heeled gentlemen, and Sanditon… well, the less she thought of the gentlemen she met there, the better. _Stop acting like an empty-headed fool!_

She folds her hands in her lap and sits straight-backed as footmen usher in trays of light fare and tea.

“Have you been in Town long?” Lord Dyden asks, after a moment.

Charlotte’s fingers tighten together. “A week, sir,” she replies.

“And do you like it?”

“It’s very… diverting,” she says. The memory of her first experience in London springs forth, but she very well can’t regale a lord with a tale that involves kidnapping and a brothel… nor her time alone in said brothel with Mr. Sidney Parker. She gives Lord Dryden a wane smile. Surely he thinks her quite a silly girl now and any moment will turn his attention elsewhere. “And you, sir? Are you long in Town?”

“Recently arrived,” he says. “I am due to take my seat in the House of Lords, and my dear aunt insists I must sample all the pleasures London has to offer.”

His smile here is neither wane nor weak, and Charlotte feels her color rise in response. There is a shade of a certain baronet in his response, and her reproach flies off the tip of her tongue before she can rein it back, “An abundance of knowledge does not make men wise -- so why not remain selective in your chosen delights lest be considered a fool?”

His eyebrows tick up, but his smile does not fade. “Sage counsel indeed, Miss Heywood,” he says. “You’ve read Heraclitus.”

Charlotte raises her chin. “I have, sir,” she says. “I enjoy all manner of books, reading, and -- why, even poetry. It is my preferred diversion, in fact.”

 _There,_ she thinks. If her awkwardness has not done it yet, admitting she is a woman who reads will surely chase him off for good. She will need to apologize to Lady Susan for dashing her latest attempt at matchmaking, of course, but--

“Mine as well,” Lord Dryden says, interrupting her swirl of thoughts. “The fine arts have long amused me.”

“Oh?” she chokes out.

“Indeed. Even better is a play seen on stage and performed, as intended,” he says. There is a definite gleam in his eyes now that tells Charlotte she waltzed right into his intended trap, and she wonders if Lady Susan’s warned her nephew of her proclivity for verbal sparring. “And it would be my _pleasure_ if you and my dear aunt would join me in my private box at Covent Garden tomorrow evening.”

Not willing to risk further insult or impoliteness, Charlotte inclines her head and defers to Lady Susan, who answers readily to the invitation in the affirmative.

“It’s settled, then,” he says. Lord Dryden’s smile softens, and, for a moment, the veneer of his facade chips away, and she sees a man; only a man. He looks at her with appreciation. Perhaps even desire.

And while she knows there is no room in her heart for reciprocity, Charlotte feels her heart skip a beat nevertheless. “It is, sir,” she says.

“And we may find a moment between acts to discuss your favorite titles. Or I may read you my poetry, if I may be obliged.”

Charlotte blushes now, charmed at his genuine interest in her reading despite every instinct in her screaming that he must be mocking her. Better so that he is, she thinks. There is little chance of a titled lord pursuing her with any real interest… but, seeing Lady Susan’s knowing smile behind her teacup, she knows strangers things have happened indeed.


	3. The Scheme

Afternoon tea draws to a close, and Lady Susan’s guests file out of the parlor room one by one until Lord Dryden stands as the last to leave.

“Miss Heywood,” he says, “it was a pleasure making your acquaintance. I am looking forward to hearing your opinion on my written word tonight.”

A gentleman interested in the opinion of young ladies is almost as unusual as a gentleman who unabashedly writes poetry, and Charlotte cannot help but jest with him: “Shall I be critical?”

He grins in response. “If you find cause for criticism, then of course. Until tonight, Miss Heywood.”

“Until tonight," she replies.

Charlotte watches him leave with a strange fluttering in her stomach. The tailoring of his jacket affords her a glimpse of broad shoulders and a tapered waist; and his breeches do little to mask the strong muscles contained therein. For a moment, she thinks of Sidney and their encounter at the cove -- the cut of his muscles and the dusting of hair on his chest -- and she cannot help but compare the two men in her mind. They are altogether different, yet so very similar. Which would she prefer? As quickly as the thought appears, she shakes it away, but her gaze is nevertheless compelled to remain with Lord Dryden.

He gives Lady Susan a fond smile as he passes her, and she squeezes his hand. Familial affection among the _ton_ is rare, and Charlotte is, at this moment, reminded of her own family.

Finally, Lord Dryden leaves, and Lady Susan and Charlotte retire to another of Worcester House’s private parlors.

As they find their seats and take up the pretense of embroidery, Lady Susan gives Charlotte a sly look. “Well?” she asks, voice pitched low. “How did you find my dear nephew?”

Charlotte blushes. She found him handsome and well-spoken, but she is reluctant to encourage Lady Susan’s matchmaking fervor. “He seems… agreeable,” she says. “Kind.”

“Agreeable and kind,” Lady Susan laughs. “Is that all?”

“Oh, Susan,” she sighs, “you can’t truly have meant to introduce me to Lord Dryden in hopes of-- well, anything more than friendship?”

“Whyever not?”

“I am a farmer’s daughter,” she replies. “He is a lord.”

“A _gentleman’s_ daughter. And yes, he is a lord -- and as such, he is free to marry as he pleases. It would bring me much joy to see you both happily wed, and better yet: to one another!”

Though she knows Lady Susan is only making light of the situation, Charlotte's stomach swoops at the idea. Every time she imagines herself walking down the aisle, there is only one man she sees at the end of the row, and it is certainly not Lord Dryden. She wrings her hands together. “But I am still-- I’m afraid I may not be open to the chance of another.”

Susan stays her threading and sits back. Silence hangs between them.

“Then I must tell you, my dear,” says Susan, “that I received word that Mr. Sidney Parker has returned from Antigua.”

Charlotte’s heart jumps in her chest. Her mind whirls. “He has?” 

“Yes, though I _must_ caution you to guard your heart going forward if he approaches you, Charlotte. Though we know Mr. Parker broke with the newly-made Lady Denham, the circumstances for the event are not yet known to us. With her hasty marriage to Sir Edward Denham, and a child born shortly thereafter, I’m afraid Mr. Parker may have been more of a scoundrel than either of us could have imagined…”

Charlotte nods, though tears burn her nose and a lump in her throat has formed. More than a year has passed them by since Sidney rode her carriage down; a year to think, and ponder, and wonder. Falling in love with him as she did, it was all the more painful when she heard he had not married Eliza after all, and fled for Antigua instead of coming for her hand in Willingden. For months, she waited for post; for word; for anything. But it never came, and to hear he’s returned--

“I had always intended on introducing you to Lord Dryden,” says Lady Susan, gently. "He is well-mannered, smart, and above all, a _good_ man. He would treat you well. Indeed, you have a chance to improve your circumstances greatly by marrying him. You could sponsor your younger sister Alison’s ‘coming out’ in London next Season; purchase a commission for your younger brothers. I do not wish to make love such a mercenary mission, but I implore you to consult both mind _and_ heart in this matter."

“And if-- if Mr. Parker _were_ to approach me?”

“Then I urge you to make him _prove_ to you that he is a worthier match indeed.”

-

“D’you think this scheme of yours will really work?”

Sidney glances -- or glares, really -- at Crowe. Presently, a carriage is whisking them through the streets of London already polluted by the _beau monde_ stepping out into Town for their nightly revelry.

“It is no scheme,” he replies, though he supposes his plan for the evening could very well be viewed as such. After all, he spent the better part of his morning and afternoon quietly inquiring about Lady Worcester’s plans, and pulled all manner of strings to ensure he would have admittance to tonight’s showing at the Covent Garden Theatre. 

Crowe harrumphs. “Put a bow on the enterprise and call it what you wish, but I cannot understand your desire to dash to the altar,” he says, which Sidney thinks is an odd observation considering Crowe is soon to be a bridegroom himself. “You yourself said Lady Worcester kept you abreast of Miss Heywood’s -- _unattachment…_ Can you not wait for a natural moment to make your return known?”

“I cannot,” he says. While Lady Worcester allowed him to write to her, he could never properly determine if she approved of him. Her responses were concise, infrequent, and dry, as if she meant to protect Miss Heywood from him even from across the sea. Choosing her to be his conduit proved less fruitful than he hoped, but he did not want to hurt Mary further, and he assumed any letter he sent to Georgiana would be tossed into the grate for burning. No offer to formally reacquaint Sidney with Charlotte came, and he was impatient to let fate decide his next move: thus, the theatre.

“Good God, man,” sniffs Crowe. “I forgot what a sop you become when you’ve a woman on your mind. Cannot we all remain miserable and unattached?”

“Indeed we cannot. Forgive me if I skip the felicitations on your wedding day,” Sidney remarks dryly.

The two gentlemen alight from the carriage once they reach the Covent Garden Theatre. The venue is teeming with bodies. Ladies in the latest fashion glide through the crowd like great, exotic creatures resplendent in baubles, lace, and feathers. Gentlemen mingle in more formal black and white, though no less freshly attired. Indeed, it is a place to see and be seen, and Sidney soon catches sight of his intended quarry. The crowd parts like the sea, and there she is: Charlotte.

She is dressed perhaps more simply than the rest of the ladies surrounding her, but this simplicity is what draws his eye -- and awe. She is beautiful. As beautiful as she remembered her.

“Well, go on,” says Crowe, already bored. “You may find me -- well, wherever there is a drink to be had.”


	4. Personal Matters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The showdown begins.

Sidney heeds Crowe’s lackadaisical command and goes. He is nearly across the lobby floor when he realizes Charlotte is obviously not stood alone, and he admonishes himself for his haste, but it is already too late. He is recognized and invited forward.

“Good evening Mr. Parker,” says Lady Worcester. Her tone is cool; her gaze assessing.

“Lady Worcester,” he replies. He sketches a deferential bow and turns to address his betters. Two gentlemen stand to her left -- one he recognizes on sight as the Duke of Kingston. The other is as dark-haired and broad-shouldered as the duke, though much younger, and Sidney has a vague recollection of meeting this man many years previous. The exact circumstances are slant, but the man’s name pops up in his mind, fresh and troubling: Gabriel, Viscount of Dryden. “Your Grace. Lord Dryden.”

He earns a polite chorus of happy returns, and Lady Worcester continues on, “Miss Heywood, I’m sure you remember Mr. Parker lately of -- was it Antigua?”

The friendly veneer of her expression cracks ever-so-slightly and he is reminded of the indomitable woman who subdued Eliza the summer previous at the regatta.

Sidney clasps his hands behind his back and forces a genial smile. “Exactly right, my lady,” he replies. He meets Charlotte’s gaze. If it was capable for his heart to burst from his chest, he is sure it would have jumped clear at this moment. Her eyes are as expressive as ever, and he’s long missed the blend of emotions with which she’s always regarded him. “I am recently returned to Town… Miss Heywood.”

“Mr. Parker,” she replies. Her chin dips politely and it seems as if she means to continue speaking, but she is summarily interrupted.

“Parker,” says the duke, as if testing the name on his tongue. He lifts a pair of quizzing glasses up and peers down at Sidney from behind them. “The name is familiar. Remind me--?”

“He was active in the sugar trade… were you not, sir?” asks Lord Dryden. “Export, import, that sort of thing. Very lucrative business from what I understand.”

The implication of ‘importing and exporting’ is not lost on Sidney, and he sees the look in Charlotte’s eyes as she, too, comprehends. He grits his teeth. The blatant challenge in Dryden’s tone and posture takes him momentarily aback. It is a direct dig and, to his knowledge, wholly unwarranted. Though he caroused plenty in his youth, he made it a point to not cross young lordlings and their ilk. He cannot imagine what issue Dryden has with him… 

Until he sees the way Dryden glances down at Charlotte. It is a split second check, yet it is enough to shift the proverbial sands underneath Sidney’s Hessians.

He knows he’s waited a long time. He _knows_ he left the chance open for Charlotte to find another -- but the scandal Eliza left him with was too great, and he did not dare chance infecting Charlotte with that sickness. In order to secure both Edward and Eliza’s compliance, he was forced to take more than one hit to his character, and he is sure rumors still float, all lowering and distasteful… If only he could have but a moment with Charlotte to explain. That he did not mean to stay away as long as he did--

He clears his throat.

“I’ve long abandoned my venture in that trade, my lord,” he replies stiffly. “I returned to Antigua on a personal matter, and nothing more.”

“Personal matters abound on that island, I’m sure,” says Dryden. 

Though his tone is jovial and light, there is no mistaking his meaning.

Sidney’s nostrils flare. It’s been too long since he’s received a proper set-down; and longer still from a lord. “And you know this from experience, my lord?”

Charlotte’s eyebrows pinch together.

Dryden’s shoulders come squarely on.

But the tension breaks as the duke huffs a laugh. His quizzing glasses are lowered. “Antigua, how delightful, how delightful,” he murmurs, as if neither Sidney nor Dryden were presently sizing one another up. “Say, when is this play to begin?”

As if commanded by the duke’s impatience, the bell for the first act rings through the lobby. A swath of porters begin to mingle through the crowd, impressing upon the patrons to ascend the stairs as soon as possible.

At this, Lord Dryden offers Charlotte his arm. “Miss Heywood, if I may?”

Sidney, expecting her -- no, _wanting_ her -- to hesitate, is dismayed when she does not. She lifts her gloved hand and places it atop Dryden’s forearm.

“Thank you, my lord,” she says. But here is where she hesitates; a fleeting moment, her eyelashes lowering before the full impact of her gaze slams into Sidney’s chest as she lifts her lashes to look at him dead on. “Good evening, Mr. Parker. I am happy to see you so well after all this time.”

With that, what little is left of Sidney’s heart leaves him at the bottom of the stairs. Fist clenched, he knows there is naught to be done but comport himself and carry on.

However he imagined their reunion, this version is quite possibly the worst one to come to pass.

Soon after, no longer reeling -- merely blood-roiling -- he finds Crowe lingering by the champagne and fairly growls out, “What do you know of Lord Dryden?”

“A fine enough fellow, and thus one I’ve avoided to the greatest extent possible,” is the reply. “What’s happened?”

Sidney’s expression darkens. “I am not yet sure.”

-

Underneath Charlotte’s carefully regulated exterior lies a churning sea of emotions.

How bold he was, she thinks, to approach their party as he did.

Though Susan warned her of Sidney’s return, she was nevertheless poorly prepared to see him. Her pulse jumped at the sight of him; her palms grew damp, her skin tingled, her cheeks flushed. Keeping silent was all she could do to maintain her outward calm. He was as handsome as ever; hearty and hale, a hint of evening whiskers dusting his sharp jaw and cheekbones. Whereas Lord Dryden was powerfully built, Sidney was lithe and sleek -- and the warmth in his eyes as he said her name…

“Are you well, Miss Heywood?” Lord Dryden asks.

“I am, thank you,” she lies. As Lord Dryden leads her to her seat, her mind changes course, and she can’t help but wonder at his exchange with Sidney. What did he mean by personal matters? Why _did_ Sidney flee to Antigua?

It is all so confusing, but she dares not ask anyone but Susan for an explanation but her attentions are firmly held by the duke.

“Have you been to the theatre before?” Lord Dryden asks as soon as they are sat.

“I have; only the once, however,” she replies. After the disaster with the chicken and the cow trundling across the stage, her father never again allowed his daughters to attend another play. “Though I’m afraid our venue is not so wondrous as this -- nor has Miss Angelica Catalani ever graced us in Willingden.”

“A shame,” he says. His lips quirk up into a teasing smile. “And where exactly _is_ Willingden?”

Before she can formulate a proper reply, the lights dim.

“Oh!” she exclaims, immediately taken by the parting velvet curtain and the bold actresses and actors who begin to come on stage.

Beside her, Lord Dryden murmurs something in her ear, but the orchestra starts up and she is swept away.

-

Attending the theatre is torture.

Even as the audience chortles and laughs and gasps over the show on stage, Sidney’s attention is firmly set on the private box where Charlotte can be seen -- sat next to none other than Lord Dryden, who does nothing to hide his very clear interest in his seat partner.

For three acts, he is stuck in his seat, seething, growing angrier -- even as logic tells him he has no grounds for any ill emotion -- except that he knows Dryden is a clever match, and it would be Sidney’s perfect punishment to see Charlotte lost to such a gentleman. Titled, untainted by scandal, wealthy… 

He imagines all of the _beau monde_ looking in the duke’s private box, just as he is. Wondering who the young lady is and how she was able to capture the attention of a viscount.

Hand curling into a fist, he imagines purpling Dryden’s handsome face with a one-two jab.

“I can hear your teeth grinding,” Crowe hisses. “Stop it.”

But Sidney cannot, and as soon as the curtain glides closed for the intermission, he is up and out of his seat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To address two questions:
> 
> \- For propriety's sake, Sidney wouldn't have been allowed to write Charlotte (an unmarried lady) without causing further scandal. I really couldn't see writing this story any other way, as I'm pretty sure Charlotte would wait for Sidney if he made his intentions to let the flames of scandal die down before coming for her known. A little suspension of belief may be required, but hey, it's a repressed historical romance! ;)
> 
> \- A Sidlotte HEA is promised!
> 
> & Thank you to @heywood_admiral for the amazing Sidney versus Dryden edit! *kissy emoji*


	5. The Alcove

_Collect yourself_ , thinks Sidney. Stomping and glowering all through the theatre is no way to behave, nor does he have the social status to conduct himself as anything but above reproach, and thus he finds a private-enough alcove to scowl and ruminate on the evening’s proceedings.

Seeing Charlotte seated with Dryden plucked at every thread of jealousy and ire he didn’t know he possessed. Though it is oft implied that the nature of second and younger sons are lesser than firsts, Sidney never begrudged Tom for his position in the Parker family. Instead, he left to find his own fortune and chase venture without ill-will to either of his brothers -- but there is no other choice for him in the matter of the heart except Miss Heywood.

Though the polish and shine of Society fell over her tonight, he sensed the opinionated young woman he met at Sanditon’s first-ever ball was ever present; lying in wait to strike and tell him exactly how she felt.

His hand curls into a tight fist. He takes a breath. Without Lady Worcester’s approval, however, he knows there is little chance of approaching Charlotte to explain why he waited so long, and why he never sent word to her. An unmarried woman requires a chaperone in Society, and Miss Heywood’s guide did not seem altogether too keen to see Sidney at the theatre tonight. 

Perhaps all was indeed lost. Even as the morose thought crosses his mind, he sees a flash of white silk as a gloved hand pulls back the alcove’s partition.

“Charlotte,” he breathes, for indeed it is she who’s joined him. His heart thumps a quick tattoo and a wild idea that she meant to run after him takes root and grows and grows, but any such flowering is promptly ripped free from fertile soil with the look she cuts him.

“‘Miss Heywood,’ if you please, sir,” she replies. She hesitates for a moment, and even as she says, “I really should leave at once--” she drops the curtain behind her.

He loses himself here, and goes to her in three easy strides. He doesn’t dare reach for her hand as he once might have, but he instead drinks in every detail of her: the tumble of her brown hair over her shoulder; glowing brown eyes; the splash of freckles over the bridge of her nose; her soft, supple lips. She glows.

“Miss Heywood,” he breathes, desperately infusing every syllable of her title and name with his regret, his sorrow, his desire.

Her eyes flicker up to his with unnamed emotion. He watches as her delicate throat works, as if the words to respond to him in kind are trapped -- but trapped behind decorum or some other emotion, he does not know.

He swallows his pride instead. “I must beg your forgiveness as well as your patience, to have but a moment to explain--”

Her hand jerks up to halt his speech. Her pink tongue darts out to wet her bottom lip. “I waited for you,” she says, trembling. But her sadness is soon consumed by the fire of her innate nature, and anger and frustration underpins her words as she speaks. They prick at him like stinging barbs: “For weeks and months, I went into my father’s study like a common thief to see if the paper from London confirmed that you had finally married Mrs. Campion -- and so imagine my surprise when it was not of Mrs. Sidney Parker that I read, but of the latest Lady Denham...”

He swallows around the lump in his throat, but she does not give him leave to speak.

“In my heart, I rejoiced,” she continues, “because you had made it so plain as I left Sanditon for Willingden that you lo-- that you cared for me. And so I naively assumed you had found a way to unshackle yourself from the debt you owed Mrs. Campion and would at once come to ask for my hand… but you never did. Mr. Parker, I want to believe that you’ve returned to London honestly, and have approached me tonight in good faith, but you’ve stung me, thrown me over, and led me to believe in hope thrice over--”

The plain-talk that caused such trouble for them in the beginning of their acquaintanceship rears its head here, and Sidney almost, _almost,_ gives into the temptation to tease her -- or reproach her -- for it; for it seems London Society did not grind down her stubborn, free-speaking ways, even as his side of things remain unrevealed to her… but he holds his tongue, and lets her rebuke crest over him like a long overdue wave.

The courage she previously displayed slowly wanes in the silence between them, and Sidney finally sees the damage he caused her -- the assured young woman who tore the hem of her dress to bandage a wound is still there, but he sees the chips and cracks he left behind as she withdraws from him. Her gaze drops. 

“In truth, seeing you again has unsettled me,” she says. “And so I must ask for your forgiveness now, sir, as I’ve spoken greatly out of turn.”

“You’ve done me no wrong,” he replies gently, “and thus there is naught to forgive. But please, Char-- Miss Heywood, if I may have but a moment--”

The curtain whips back suddenly.

Miss Heywood gasps and springs away from him.

Sidney’s stomach drops to his feet, but it is only Crowe.

“There you two are,” he drawls. “Good evening, Miss Heywood, lovely to see you again. However much I’ve missed your company, I might recommend a rapid departure for you. A certain viscount is swaggering his way up and down the theatre in search.”

“Mr. Crowe,” she replies, her voice high-pitched and tight, and just as quickly as she descended upon the alcove, she is gone.

Sidney scrubs his hand across his face, sudden relief clarifying his stupidity. Indeed he is a prized idiot. He is in London, not Sanditon. If anyone caught him and Miss Heywood -- alone, together; _unchaperoned_ \-- in a curtained alcove, they would have both been scorched. The burn of Eliza’s betrayal tarnished his reputation so much he is sure no explanation would be taken as sane.

“Thank you,” he tells Crowe.

“I’ve impeccable timing, I know,” says his friend, altogether too cheerful in the face of the disaster he averted.

But just as Sidney sidestepped ruin, the chance to explain himself to Charlotte also slipped between his fingers like sand.


End file.
